


Kink Application

by Yassoda



Category: Sherlock (BBC), Sherlock - Fandom
Genre: Blood, Crack, Drunk Writing, I was drunk okay, I'm so sorry, Masturbation, Other, Pink - Freeform, Read at Your Own Risk, This is terrible, Umbrella, crackfic, funky science, sex with objects, what the fuck
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-17
Updated: 2014-07-17
Packaged: 2018-02-09 06:59:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,299
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1973280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yassoda/pseuds/Yassoda
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft pleasures himself using an umbrella. A pink umbrella. It goes wrong. He needs help.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Kink Application

**Author's Note:**

> My sister and I were so drunk. Don't read if the image of a grown man sticking an object up his arse with unpleasant consequences offends or disturbs you in any way.

Mycroft was feeling sexually flustered, and such an occurrence, rare as it was (Irene hadn't called him the ice man unknowingly) often went ignored. Always went ignored. But not tonight. Not when the pink umbrella he never used was tantalizingly leaning in a corner. So pink. So bright. His penis so needy. His arsehole clenching in anticipation. How inconvenient. Well, he could indulge himself tonight. It had been approximatively two years since his last... Kink... Application. Adequate time span. He could let his bodily impulses govern him this time.  
He retrieved the lubricant and smeared some on the wooden tip. The umbrella looked lush and rigid. It would be thin but hard and unforgiving against his prostate. Perfect to induce release. Unlike the plebe, he didn't get off on soft curves of buttocks or breasts, on empathy with copulating bodies, on pain from smacks or whips, on ageplay or other such activities. His hand worked for the mechanical monthly release. His collection of umbrellas was used when he truly seeked pleasure.  
Mycroft discarded his trousers and pants, hanging them on their spare hanger (of course) and got in the most practical position to proceed.  
He slicked his fingers and pressed one against his rim, massaging before easing in slowly. He didn't really need to spread himself dramatically. Unless he opened the umbrella. The thought sent shivers through his body, which he tried to repress, just on principle. But he slid a second finger in nonetheless, scissoring with an intent. When he deemed himself ready (and arousal was definitely not clouding his judgement thank you very much) he slipped the hard piece of wood in easily and thrust. And moaned wantonly, though he would never admit it. The tip grinded his prostate, for he knew exactly what the perfect angles were, had calculated them actually, and his knees sagged from the mixture of pleasure and discomfort. Ugh. His vocabulary lost three hundred words, a record if he said so himself. He pulled on the synthetic fabric to tantalize himself further with the sweet pleasure of denial before pushing firmly inwards, the waterproof material slipping in, the feeling of metal branches noticeable if he clenched. Which he did with relish, before twisting the umbrella, twirling it slowly inside of him. This was the moment when coherence and self-control were thrown to the wind, and crass words and horrible metaphors he would rather die than use in every day life made their entrance in his thoughts. Despicable. But so good. And there was one right there.  
Mycroft arched his back as he increased the diameter of the soft circles the umbrella made restlessly. The tip was going round and round, pressing at his insides, deeper and deeper as he pushed greedily, spreading himself, preparing for the ultimate stretch, the pressure, pain, and pleasure that would overwhelm him and make him ejaculate.  
Sweaty and red-faced, the object at its deepest, six inches of pink cloth still sticking out as well as the curved handle, Mycroft let his thumb graze the button that would mechanically open the umbrella, torturing himself some more, waiting, letting the want of it all fill him and make his nerves sing with synapses and over-sensitivity. And then he pressed. The small click was lost in moans and pants as the man spent himself, his hole stretched, the runners and stretchers straining and failing to open the umbrella completely, the metal ribs biting unforgivingly at his insides, oh so sweetly.  
After indulging his brain a small refractory period others would call 'black-out', Mycroft shifted and pulled on the handle.  
It didn't give.  
He clenched his arsehole, trying to close the umbrella with the force of his anal muscles, and failed.  
Oh.  
Well this was unfortunate.  
He tugged on the handle with more vigor and was appalled when he let out a painful hiss. This wouldn't do. He required assistance. 'Anthea' was out of the question. He couldn't trust anyone with this. Except someone who already knew. Well, deduced.  
The word 'shit' appeared in his mind, and was appropriate.  
Mycroft found his cell phone and called Sherlock.

\-----

Two drops of acid, 10% solution. Death of E. Colli. Predictable. Dissolve to 9%

"Sherlock."

One drop. Observe. Adjust the focus. Wait. Death again.

"Sherlock your bloody phone is ringing and I'm bloody trying to sleep so you'd better pick up right now and God help me if you make me get it from your bloody pocket..."

John. Three bloodies. Better obey.

"Fine."

Phone. Mycroft. Git. What now.

"What."

"Hello brother mine. As much as it pains me to admit it, I require your assistance. As soon as possible. Actually, come now. Alone."

"You're breathless. Started up jogging again have you?"

"Sherlock please."

".... Please?! Are you stooping to begging?"

"Sherlock!"

Desperation. Mycroft didn't do desperation. Nor ragged breathing, nor hoarse voice.

"John! I'm out! Don't wait up!"

Mumbled answer. Most likely 'wasn't going to' or 'shut up' or 'take care'. Or all three.

Sherlock entered the black car that was waiting for him.

\-----

Mycroft had slipped a sleeping gown on and was lying on his stomach when his brother finally opened the door.  
Sherlock took in the situation, flinching only slightly before closing his eyes.

"I did not need to see this."

"I couldn't call anyone else."

"Surely one of your trusted minions could have done."

"I don't trust them. Not for personal matters."

Sherlock groaned and opened his eyes a fraction.

"How did this happen?"

"It seems I have.... Miscalculated."

"You don't say."

"Fine, if you want the details, I didn't go deep enough and I am now unable to reach far enough to close it, and don't have the right leverage to..."

"Shut up for God's sake!"

Mycroft smirked.

"You did ask."

"No, I didn't actually."

Mycroft shifted and his face contorted in pain.

"Less talking, more helping, if you don't mind."

"I mind!" snapped Sherlock as he made his way behind his brother, assessing the situation, muting the part of his brain that was retching at the sight and telling him to run away, turning on the cold interest he had when confronted with a puzzle. Not that this was a puzzle. It just asked for a delicate touch.

He put rubber gloves on.

"Are those clean?"

"Yes. You should see a doctor after that."

"I will."

"Will you tell him what happened?"

"No."

"As a member of your family, I should recommend not lying to doctors, it..."

"Sherlock!"

"Fine, fine. Reach back and squeeze it in your fist."

Mycroft did as told. His brother's sure hands came and clicked the umbrella closed. He then found the lubricant and with its help he slowly eased the pink thing out, as delicately as possible. Mycroft winced and groaned, but stayed remarkably stoic during the whole ordeal.  
It finally came out. Mycroft sighed.

"There is blood," noted Sherlock.

"Well of course there is."

The older man shifted and stood without applying any pressure on his rump, which in itself was quite extraordinary.

"Thank you," he snipped.

"Well, you know what Mummy says about family."

"Yes. Goodbye Sherlock."

Sherlock threw the rubber gloves on top of the soiled pink umbrella and nodded once before twirling around and walking away.

"Oh, and Sherlock?"

"I know. Not a word. I'm deleting it already."

The door closed and Mycroft sagged down again, groaning in pain tinged with pleasure. As he dialed for medical assistance, he mused. Perhaps he needed more practice.

\------

DELETE DELETE DELETE DELETE DELETE OH GOD DELETE NEVER AGAIN FOR GOD'S SAKE.

When he was free of those dreadful images and relatively sure he wouldn't retch at the sight of a pink umbrella, Sherlock sagged down on the sofa and fell in some kind of doze. Rearranging the mind palace could be draining.

~THE END~


End file.
